


Wake Up

by traceExcalibur



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traceExcalibur/pseuds/traceExcalibur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"One day, when Eridan Ampora falls asleep, he dreams of an amaranthine moon..."</i></p><p>What if Eridan were the first to awaken on Derse, shortly before SGRUB began? What if he tried to wake Feferi up, so she could fly around with him?</p><p>...what if he failed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Up

One day, when Eridan Ampora falls asleep, he dreams of an amaranthine moon. He rests in a tower, high above the surface; it is an odd facsimile of his own room, with the walls and objects all painted to match the hue of his blood. Curious, he stands up and is surprised to find himself hovering, inches above the ground. Testing his ability, he discovers that he can fly. He swoops around his room in disbelief – how in the hell is this happening? Magic? No, that can’t be it, magic is fake. He must be dreaming.

He flies out the tower window, and sees that a sprawling city wraps around the moon; it has a medieval design, with lavender battlements and purple statues stretching as far as the eye can see.  Creatures with black shells prowl the darkened streets, shooting shifty glances at each other and their surroundings.

There are four other towers like his; he pays them no mind at first, choosing instead to explore the city, but before he reaches the streets he feels an odd twinge in his chest. He doesn’t know how, but he knows that she is here. Feferi Peixes, his princess, is sleeping in one of the towers.

He does a spin – flying is so much easier than he’d expected – and rockets towards her tower. He slips through the window, and he sees her at rest. Her recuperacoon is empty of slime, and her body clothed, perhaps for modesty’s sake. Her lips are flushed with a soft magenta, and parted slightly. Her chest bobs up and down with every breath, and her eyelids flutter. Her hair falls behind her, trailing down her back in loosely tangled strands. She is beautiful.

In his dreams he is distant from reality. The corruptive influences that mar his waking mind have not reached the world of dreams, and so in this realm he is pure. His love for her is genuine, and his only desire is for her to awaken and share this world with him.

He takes his princess’ hand in his. She feels warm.

“Fef, wake up. Come dream with me, we can fly around. You’d like that, right?”

There is no response. An innocent thought pops into his mind, and he leans in and presses his lips to hers in a quick kiss. Still she does not awaken.

And so he spends hours there, holding her hand, waiting for her eyes to snap open, and for her to join him. Hours, painful hours, pleading with the slumbering princess, and he is rewarded with nothing. Disconsolate, he wakes up, and he endures the struggles of the waking world once more.

Day breaks, and he clambers into his recuperacoon, eager for another chance at his dream. Again, he dreams of Derse. Again, he tries to wake his beloved. Again, he fails.

The night before they are set to play SGRUB, he tries one last time. He enters the tower, and he hovers over to his princess.  Leaning over her, admiring her pretty face, holding her hand, he begs for her to dream alongside him.

“Come on! Wake up, I know you want to wake up. You _have_ to wake up…”

He leans in close, and nearly whispers his last sentence.

“…because I love you.”

 

 

*****

 

 

As the game begins, the dreams become nightmares. He is trapped in a land of wrathful angels; hours of sleep are few and far between as he struggles for survival. When he does sleep, she is no longer his. She flies around on the outskirts of the planet, cavorting with Elder Gods and singing ghostly hymns to the void.

Even worse, he was not the one to wake her. The honor went to the mustard-blood; ilk undeserving of her sympathy, and – it disgusts him to even consider the possibility – her love. What has Captor done to earn her praise, that he hasn’t? Why, after spending hours upon futile hours by her side, holding her hand and kissing her sweetly and begging for her to awaken and see him for who he is, has he been denied her?

A meek, innocent voice speaks from within him. It has yet to be corrupted by the black, heart-numbing influences of reality. Isn’t she happy? Doesn’t the mustard-blood please her? Why should he seek to destroy her happiness in pursuit of her own? Can’t he be pleased, knowing that she is well?

No. How can she be happy, without him? How can that snivelling, lispy coward please royalty like her?

The gnarled grasp of bitter jealousy curls around that last, pure spark of light, and snuffs it out.

 

 

*****

 

 

Hours after the game is ‘won’, he awakens with a start on Derse, a blinding glow and the rev of a chainsaw fresh in his memory. He is in what remains of his room; the moon has been torn apart, and only the charred wreckage remains. Ethereal green embers flicker in his midst, and the corpses of hapless Dersites float through the air alongside shattered windows and broken battlements.

He, much like the city, is falling apart. His arms and legs are badly burnt, and a great gash has been torn in his stomach. He is falling apart at the seams, his violet lifeblood spilling out and his guts ready to follow. He knows that, just as he has left the waking world, it is not long before he will join the dreaming dead.

Somewhere deep inside him, triggered perhaps by the looming presence of death, that pure, innocent spark relights itself. He is awash with remorse; it is _his_ fault she is dead. He is a _murderer_ , and now his sleeping beauty will never awaken.

He can still sense her.  And before death claims him, he wants to see her, one last time.

He summons what little strength he can manage and propels himself out into the ruined city. Flagpoles with ripped and ashen banners float through the abyss alongside the fractured remains of streets and sewers. For a moment he jolts, and he swears he can see in a burning crater the corpse of the girl who killed him. That's impossible - she is not from this moon. It must be his conscience playing games with his mind, forcing him to see his mistakes...and though he does not know how Kanaya could have revived herself, he knows he deserved what he got.

Far from the moon, he finds her. She is bisected, painting the skies with her gorgeous tyrian shade. In the world of the living his heart was encased in blackness and ice; the sight of her body did nothing to him. But here, unbearable sorrow rips through his every vein.

“Fef, I’m sorry…I’m a fuckin’ idiot, a no good low down bucket a’ pond scum. An’ I never meant to hurt you, so please, wake up,” he tells his sleeping beauty, “I need you to wake up.”

He reaches out to her, takes her by the shoulders, and pulls her to him. Even in death she is beautiful, but in death she is imperfect. Her eyes are open, unseeing, and the exuberant sparkle that he so adored is lost. Her lips are pale, and parted slightly. Her hand is clammy and cold as he takes hold of it, and so too are her lips as he kisses them softly. She does not respond. She is gone.

Tears fall unbidden from his eyes as his wounds catch up to him. He clutches onto her tightly, what remains of his chest heaving with sobs. His heart, pounding with an unbearable, guilty agony, leaves him; it can no longer stand the company. With his vision blackening around the edges and his body searing with pain, he draws one last, rattling breath, and whispers to the girl he is about to join.

“You have to wake up…

 

 

 

…because I still love you.”


End file.
